Shaking My Foundations
by Quillitch
Summary: 8 months on from the end of the movie and Hannibal sends Clarice a letter...is it the start of something new-again? *New Chapter 12*
1. Shards

Follows film storyline, as the book (which I read after seeing the film) finishes nicely with a 'ride of into the sunset' kind of scene, the film leaves room for a sequel. So what the heck, I'm gonna have fun and give it a go!

Please note that anything you recognise is from Thomas Harris' brilliant books and thus belongs not to me but he. (Rhymes!)

Read Review! Tell me what you think, and help! Because I've never written a Hannibal story before!

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Story.

It was March; it had been eight months since Muskrat farm, where Paul Krendler had had his brains for dinner. Clarice Starling had been reinstated after 6weeks of enforced leave and many many uncomfortable interviews with her superiors. Now she was back, and glad of the employment, they had decided that assigning her paperwork would be seen as too harsh by the media and had instead given her Brigham's job -an instructor of guns at the academy. Of course they hadn't told her that was the reason, but she knew it was, it was better than she had hoped for, but Clarice Starling missed being in the action, unable to feel that she was helping anyone by simply teaching, the lambs had started screaming -loudly. 

It was Monday morning and she felt as though she hadn't actually gone to bed, dark circles under her eyes and lethargic in her movements, slowly she made her self a mug of coffee, feeling like she needed it, and absentmindedly pouring orange juice instead of milk into her cereal. The mail box clattered as the postman pushed through her mail, and she went to pick it up, abandoning her rather disgusting brekkie but taking her coffee, she rather wished she hadn't. 

Lying on the floor was an advertisement for 'A New Slimmer Body' and a bill for electricity and, and a personal letter, her address written in the elegant curves that could only mean…Clarice dropped her coffee in shock and horror. Hannibal Lector, Damn him! What did he want? Carefully stepping over her broken mug, unheeding of the coffee stain that was spreading into her carpet, she used a bit of tissue to pick it up, though she doubted there would be any useful fingerprints now the postal service had manhandled it. She moved back into the kitchen, pulling on a pair of cotton evidence gloves she used a knife to prise open the wax seal, and slowly withdrew the piece of fine quality parchment that lay within. Taking a breath she unfolded and read it.

__

Clarice,

How are you? It's only polite to ask after all, although I must say that my own observations, if you'll permit me to say, indicate that you are not doing so well. Yes Clarice, I have been 'around' but I can assure you that when you receive this I shall not be, knowing you as I do. 

Are the lambs still screaming Clarice? Do you wake in the night all in a sweat and bother because their cries are louder than ever? Knowing that you are helpless to aid them, now that your precious F B I have abandoned you as a lost cause? 

Ah yes, I know that you are no longer 'out in the field' so to speak, not paperwork, but teaching the next generation of Agents how to fire to kill…Kill. Tell me Clarice, how is what you do different from what I do, you kill and I kill, we both kill people who deserve it, at least in our own opinions. The only difference being is that you hold a license to do so, whereas I am a law unto myself. 

However I am sure you do not see it so, no, your (or should I say **daddy's) **undoubtedly strong morals enable you to see things in black and white. Simply that I am evil incarnate and your darling F B I the 'good guys'. Do you really believe that Clarice? After all we've been through? I think that a seed of 'gray' has begun to sprout in your fertile mind, and I continue to hope that someday, you will realise the truth. The F B I are corrupt and they care little for justice and aid to those in need, they are a political establishment, they care not for anything but their image and the power. You will never fit in there Clarice, you are too pure, too innocent in your lack of selfish motive or drive. You will never be happy there Clarice and the screams of the lambs shall not cease.

You will be glad to know, or at least curious, that I had my thumb sewn back on, a painful procedure but necessary, it's a little stiff but otherwise working as fine as ever.

I couldn't help noticing Clarice, that your report on our last dinner together was…interesting. Yes, I saw it, I hate to say this, cliché as it is but I have my sources, and so I wonder…why? Perhaps we shall have to have a little chat sometime hmm?

Well now Clarice, this letter grows long, and I know that you will be eager to take it off to your F B I forensics team, it was a pleasure seeing you again my dear.

Till again,

Ta ta

Hannibal Lecter MD

Clarice knew immediately what it was he'd found 'interesting' in her report (how had he gotten hold of it?) she had, somehow, urr, neglected to mention the fridge 'conversation'. Except to say that they had briefly fought until he trapped her hair in the fridge and then she handcuffed him where upon he had chopped off his thumb when she refused him the keys. Clarice fought down a shiver at the memories, images and feelings flashing through her. *Krendler eating his own pre-frontal cortex, saying 'mmm good!'* *Lecter holding her wrists, pinning her against the fridge, the cold door through her dress* *going to bite her, stopping short, teeth bared* *and then his lips pressed against hers, hard*. Clarice Starling muttered a rude word and banished the memories, before phoning into the F B I office and getting Pearsall.

"Sir, Dr Lecter has contacted me again" brisk and business like, although her hair is a mop and she feels messy.

"Starling? How?" 

"A letter sir"

"You've opened it?" reprimanding already.

"Yes, I had to make sure it wasn't a false alarm -Sir" Clarice tries to keep the distaste from her voice, she doesn't like Pearsall, in fact she doesn't like any of them..she leaves that line of thought quickly.

"Bring it in Agent Starling, I'll be waiting" 

The phone clicks the dial tone resumes and Special Agent Clarice Starling mutters another rude word.

REVIEW! Because I'd really like to know if this is okay? If you wish me to continue? Thanks!


	2. Traced

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Disclaimer Nope don't belong to me, I checked but it turns out this bloke… you get the idea…

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Two.

Clarice was sat in Pearsall's office, waiting, he had asked her to report immediately she presumed it was about Dr Lecter's letter. They wouldn't find anything, he wasn't thick, Clarice covered a yawn with her hand, tiredness catching up with her. *Stay awake damn you! * she cursed herself mentally, at that moment she heard the telltale squeak of the office door behind her, and she stood.

"Sit down Starling" she did as she was told, trying to keep her eyelids open, it had been a boring day, as soon as she had handed the letter over she'd been dismissed. "We've hit gold" Pearsall continued, a smile on his face.

"I'm sorry sir?" no way, no way!

"The letter was posted in Paris Agent Starling, we've traced it"

Silence, Starling couldn't believe what she was hearing; Dr Lecter wouldn't slip up! He was too intelligent, too clever, how could he? Something just wasn't right. Pearsall seemed to take her silence for stunned approval for his greasy smile increased, obviously his head was full of the glory of catching one of the FBI's 10 Most Wanted. "He's slipped up Starling. I've word from above" a pause so that she can appreciate how he is in a position of far more power than her "and they want everything go go go! The bastard's coming home this time"

"You've yet to catch him - Sir" she thought to remind him, her expression sceptical.

"True. I'm sure you'll be a little more enthusiastic when you learn of whose heading this team…"

"Who?" I wonder if I'm even on it?

"You Starling, after all, Lecter has this 'thing' for you.."

"I'm bait"

Pearsall looks uncomfortable he feels a bit bad about this, but honestly, "Do you want to stay a teacher for the remainder of your career Starling?" her face is answer enough "You fly out tomorrow morning, don't miss the plane. Paris has agreed to co-operate and you'll have all expenses paid".

"Yes sir" full FBI agent mode, Pearsall plays his last card,

"If you catch him Starling, the powers that be will give you Behavioural Sciences -on a golden plate. It's a hell of an opportunity".

Clarice can't help that her mouth is open in shock, wow, they really want Lecter to offer me "Directorship?"

"You've been the Director for Instruction of Guns for a while Starling. You're perfectly able, but you need the experience, get Lecter and we couldn't possibly _not_ give you the job". He's being nice and they both know it, Crawford left a gap that hasn't been filled by a permanent but it _is _a good opportunity, it's all Clarice has ever wanted, her dad - damn always her dad, go to hell Lecter.

"Thank you sir" she stands, as he does, and takes the case file, although she already has a copy.

"Be careful Starling, Jack would-" Pearsall stops unsure about what to say, Clarice saves him the bother.

"I know, I will be. Good bye sir" she leaves him stood with the strange feeling that Jack Crawford would not be happy with him about this turn of events.

-----

When Clarice got home, she slammed her front door, kicked off her shoes, stood on her broken coffee mug, swore as it cut her foot, swore again at the coffee stain, swore yet again at the blood now joining it, and finally just stood there and tried to remember every swear word she had _ever_ ever heard. Then she repeated them. 

She was tempted to do so again, only something caught her eye, another letter was propped up against a vase on her kitchen table, originally the vase had held a few what could once have been termed as flowers, but had dried and shrivelled and turned an unattractive brown. Now though, they had gone, and instead, in the vase was sat a bunch of yellow and cream daffodils, with some fern, they made a pretty picture, against her pale yellow painted kitchen walls. 

She had frozen, but now she reached for her .45 and cocked it, her bleeding foot forgotten as she very carefully made her way into her own kitchen, suddenly it seemed too quiet, no sound, her breath coming so loud, making waves in that thick silence. When she made it to the letter she bent her head on impulse and smelt the flowers- so very fresh and sweet! Picking up the letter, she saw that it was engraved with one word: _Clarice. _Doctor Lecter had been here, might still be here, her hand shook as she opened the letter, forgetting the gloves, the seal.

__

Hello Clarice,

I hope you appreciate the flowers? Simple I know, but the ones you had were such a poor excuse really.

No doubt your best friend the FBI has traced my whereabouts? No doubt then that they have put you on the case. After all you are my one 'weakness' are you not? Does it please you, give you a sense of power to know that you are my 'weakness'?

I'm looking forward to our discussion Clarice; perhaps you will be able to join me for another special dinner? I do believe you never had a chance to sample the main course last time, such a pity, if I do say so myself, I am a rather good cook. I should like to cook for you Clarice, especially after looking at the rather pitiful contents of your fridge. Now really Clarice, is that any way to live? I was rather appalled, and I would have taken the liberty of re-stocking, however since you will not be staying here, there was no need.

I can imagine your face Clarice, shocked and angry that I have invaded your privacy to intrude upon your home ground, it was necessary I felt.

Clarice, I must go, time does not stand still for even me, yes the good doctor has an ego, and I see that you will be returning very shortly.

I will see you soon Clarice,

Regards,

Hannibal Lecter M D

Clarice wants to start again on the swear words, perhaps backwards? He's setting her up, he wanted them to find him, he knew they would put her on the case, and he's BEEN IN HER HOUSE! She picks up her gun again and starts a careful tour of her home, she checks her bedroom last, when she reaches the door she kicks it open in a sudden burst of nervous energy, only to find…

Heh heh. There is some humour in this one, I had some fun, I know it may seem plot less, but I'm just not rushing it. **Thank you** to all my reviewers! You write great reviews! (Keep on doing so)! I hope I haven't made too many mistakes with the whole American bit, tell me if I do, to tell the truth I've _no_ idea on the FBI, but eiik I hope it doesn't show that much! 


	3. Square one?

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Three! Can you believe it - a third chapter, I'm so amazed, and it's such fun too! Major thanx to you reviewers, you're fabulous, wonderful and inspiring! LOL! Definitely keep me writing with such positive reviews and helpful comments! Okay… maybe I'll get on with the chapter now!!

…Nothing. At least nothing out of the ordinary, there was her bed, in the centre with a tired looking duvet cover in a hideous shade of peach, as well as her high street bought bedside cupboards, her average cheap pine wardrobe stuck in the corner. 

The walls were bare accept for her FBI graduation certificate and photo framed and stuck on the wall, a small one of her and Ardelia sat on her bedside table. The carpet was brown and cream and suddenly Clarice Starling felt utterly depressed, did she actually live here, it seemed as if nothing of herself her own personal self existed here? It was grim and unappealing and as with a sudden painful flash of clarity Clarice realised she had no home, no where she felt she could relax and be herself, and she wondered why. 

Am I afraid to bear my soul, are my defences, my walls become too stiff, too hard and unyielding, is there any hope for me, will I ever be a wife, a mother, will I ever love freely, laugh uninhibitedly, what stops me from having this? Why am I like this, why am I stuck here, not progressing, not getting on with my life?! 

Clarice suddenly felt a hollowness in her that swallowed her in hopeless blackness, and she sat on the edge of her bed, feeling more miserable than she could ever remember. It seemed that every thing she had ever strived for had been in vain, because she was back where she'd started- with nothing at square one. 

The trouble was, she mused, I placed value on all the wrong things, I worked hard to get the grades, to get the scholarships to become a 'special agent' and only really because of Dad. Now I'm 33 with nothing to speak of, except a lasting strange one-way friendship with a cannibalistic sociopath and a job with which I've lost faith in.

"Great!" she muttered angrily, and flung herself back on her bed, only to jump up again as something sharp pricked her neck, with a sharp exclamation she drew back her bed sheets to uncover a single beautiful white rose. Startled she gently picked it up and smelt it carefully; it was sweet and light, fresh and pure, and she took a deep breath of the essence, no doubt an expensive one. Suddenly things didn't seem so bad, despite the fact that Dr Lecter had left the rose for her (of this she had no doubt-who else?) it was still the most romantic thing, and she did really need a pick up for her flagging morale. 

The white rose swept away the blackness and the silence of her pain disappeared to be replaced with the old Clarice, who bounced up to run downstairs and place it in some water, before enthusiastically packing for the morrow.

Outside Clarice's house, in the shadow of the trees across the street Hannibal Lecter lowered his binoculars with a curve of his lips, and a glitter of his maroon eyes that only just showed that he was pleased and he was. Clarice had been pleased with the rose, good, and she was coming to him in Paris, even better. Seeing Clarice in so much pain had been exquisite but he had been surprised to discover it had a sour tang to it, so her reaction to his rose had been very pleasant; he stored the memory away in his memory palace for later reflection on his strange feelings. Now she would be ready to face him for another set of games in Paris, ah the Lovers City, he wondered if she had realised that yet? Smiling languidly Hannibal Lecter moved away with a cat like grace that was eerie to see, melting into the shadows as if they were a second skin.

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The noise was persistent, and getting louder, with a groan Clarice Starling rolled over in her bed and slammed her hand down on top of her alarm clock aiming for the snooze button but instead catching he edge of the table instead. The pain awoke her and she went "Owww!" for a while before smacking off her alarm that was still going and clambering out of her twisted sheets. It was 6:30 am.

At the end of her bed stood a suitcase, and hung on the back of her wardrobe door was the suit she would wear today, she gave a crooked smile at this positive step. Until she reached the bathroom and discovered she had packed her only toothbrush, at which the usual early morning Clarice emerged so that the only thing to be heard for a while were bear like growls and heavy thuds as she was anything but graceful in the mornings.

However after a shower and washing her hair, some mouthwash (she couldn't be bothered to search for her toothbrush) some dry cereal (she'd run out of milk) and a urr, very strong coffee, she was what could be identified as homosapien, fairly human. And as such she made her way to the airport to catch the early flight to Paris.


	4. For better

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Four. 

When Clarice gave her boarding pass to the flight attendant she was shocked to find herself directed towards the first class seating, she tried to look natural but all she could think was 'heck how _big _are these seats and comfy too'. 

A sudden thought made her smile; it was quite obvious that the Bureau meant to squeeze her for everything she had, so they were kissing her arse- that or they didn't expect her to survive this case. Cheery. 

Clarice settled down, fastening her belt securely but not paying attention to the air stewardess who was indicating exits, she was preoccupied with trying to figure out what that little switch did there…

"Oh!" as her seat slides smoothly back then forward again as the delayed commands of her continuous pushing of the button sped through, back again then oh and then forward and _does _she feel like an idiot. 

Her face flushes red, everyone is staring, suddenly she has an urge to laugh but decides that as she has a 7hour flight with these guys it's probably best not to make them think that she's totally nuts. Not mentioning the damage there is already to her less than perfect image.

Damn Dr. Lecter, what is he up to? It's obvious that he let them find him, he knew she would be put on the case too, so what's the purpose? Perhaps he wants to mess with my head some more, play a few more games, gotten bored being a rich aristocratic, decided to have some more _fun_ playing with an FBI agent. 

Clarice leant her head back against the seat headrest (her seat had stopped jumping) and tried to figure out things from the Doctor's point of view but it gave her a headache so instead she asked the Stewardess for a white wine, hell it was free- why not? 

Before she continued her absentminded staring out the window, as she didn't want to be subject to watching a cheesy movie, the view was spectacular, white fluffy clouds in puffs like cotton wool, and the sky a vivid fresh blue. Far below now, as they continued to rise, the roads like strips of cooked spaghetti and the cars like tiny ants, houses mere smudges against the ground. 

Clarice sighed in some sort of realisation that it all really was very insignificant, she was a drop of water in a vast ocean her worries, her fears, her insecurities worth nothing to anyone but herself. No one cares about me, she thought gloomily, hell girl what's wrong with you? You're not normally this pensive, buck up! 

Beside her, her fellow passenger rustled his newspaper as he turned a sheet, to her horror Clarice saw her own face plastered next to a mug shot of Hannibal Lecter. The bold headline; **'FBI Agent Clarice Starling to Pursue Hannibal 'the Cannibal' in Paris' **and then subtitled 'Beauty and the Beast to reunite?' with a continuation that included the Chesapeake incident and some other details which most definitely were _not _true!

The stewardess came back with the wine and the guy with the paper had to lower it, Clarice tried to hide her face, but to no avail.

"Hey you're that woman, you know, the one that loves the Cannibal!" like the entire cabin heard, Clarice felt cold fury rise up inside of her at the man's total lack of manners and respect.

"No I am not" she replied so cooly that he hoped he might get the hint.

"Sure, Clarice Starling right? Nice to meet you!" he was short, middle-aged and had combed his few remaining hairs across his shiny head in an effort to hide his baldness. She did not take his hand.

"Special _Agent_ Starling, yes. If you don't mind I have some work to do" and she took out her files hoping he'd leave her alone, ha! She wished!

"No way! Files on Hannibal Lecter! Can I have a look?" he leaned over her, he had really bad breath, she tried not to smack him one in the you-know-where.

"These are _private _**FBI **files sir, I'd appreciate it if you would" _keep your digusting slimy nose outta it _"give me some space to work".

"No problem, but can I have a look?" 

"Not unless you wish to be arrested…?" she had reached the end of her tether, Dr Lecter you missed one she thought wryly before realising what she had said - shit.

"No. Urr okay then, can I get your autograph?"

"No you bloo-" Clarice takes a quick breath "no sir you may not, I am _not _a celebrity. Now if you _please_ could give me some peace!" there was no question that she meant business, her tone of voice was icy and the bloke backed off immediately to hide behind his newspaper. 

Thank Gawd! 

A few seats forward Mr Dawkins smiles and leans back in his seat, closing his eyes and using his other senses, which he has honed to almost perfection to concentrate on Clarice. She was angry, he has seen the papers too, they are rather vulgar, and that man was very rude, however it was interesting to see how his Clarice dealt with him. Mr Dawkins thoughts wander, he has come to the conclusion that it pleases him when Clarice is happy, and is unpleasant for him when she is not, but her distress draws him to her -if only because he wants to see her, and she _needs_ him then. A pity he cannot join her now, to be able to perhaps touch her hand or hair briefly -ahh. But no, it is far too risky, the newspapers have not been stingy with the photos, he cannot risk detection, he will never give up his freedom. Not even for his Clarice…

Clarice wakes when the man next to her snorts in his sleep, he has a thin trickle of saliva hanging from his mouth, and it stretches to perilously near her shoulder. She shifts position, and then notices that they are circling the airport, on cue a stewardess' voice comes over the speakers, the man awakens but is too dozy to speak -thankfully. Clarice packs up her tray, the FBI file was put away just before she slept, and folds her blanket before fastening her belt as they start the landing procedure. 

Out in the airport, stretching her stiffened limbs and trying to remember the name of her hotel, it's late at night and the city lights twinkle merrily away from the windows, she pauses to look at them.

She doesn't know why she smiles.

A/N: Okeydokey, personalised replies to reviews for chapter three -aren't I nice? **S. Bridges**; I know nothing much happened on the flight but I'm building up on the anticipation (work with me here...lol). **Lexa **I don't know why they aren't showing up your end could just be Fan.Net playing up -try again later? **LadyOfTruths**; goodie goodie! (hee hee). **Chameleon302**;I know it was wrong, but it was meant to be like that, basically so you don't suspect next time! **Steel; **square 2 will be coming up, how'd you guess?! **Luna**, **Tara,** here's more, hope you enjoy it! **Shattered Mug;** I hope it isn't detrimental to your health! 

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Thank you All!! I'm having so much fun with this - grin


	5. Or for worse

Decided it was time Clarice and the good Doctor were reunited for a little conversation! Yeah! (This is for Luna!)

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Five.

At 9am the next morning Clarice found herself standing at the front of a debriefing room full of French police officers who were trying to understand what she was saying, it wasn't disastrous, just mildly terrible. It seemed that their English was far better than her high school French but that her accent, no matter how slight she'd thought it was, made it hard for them to understand her. 

She resorted to using visual aids, writing key words and drawing obscure little pictures, until finally she asked the section chief (who knew a little more English) for a translator. He was more than happy to oblige, meanwhile, whilst they waited she managed to get some of them making lists of expensive 5 star hotels, places where even more expensive wines could be purchased, large famous French theatres, the works basically. The rest she had phoning up and inquiring if someone with the title 'Doctor' had signed in/bought/ordered/reserved a place there. 

Suffice to say there were already so many leads it was mayhem, but the next step would be going to these places and showing the staff pictures of the Doctor as well as checking out the histories of each and every suspect. 

The section chief (he told her to call him Pierre) came back mid-afternoon to tell her that the nearest free available translator wasn't available until the next day. Clarice felt like banging her head against the wall, but instead she thanked him and told him that the lists and enquiries were likely to take all day anyhow. Though he didn't understand 'anyhow'…

It was 7ish when Clarice finally made it back to the 5star hotel she was staying at (yep the bureau was definitely going all out). She was tired and starving and wanted nothing more than to have a nice long bath, but figured she would have dinner first before they stopped serving. 

A quick shower and a change from her suit into a more feminine but modest deep blue dress that fell to her ankles she made her way down to the restaurant. Clarice didn't know it but she looked stunning her long hair released from his severe ponytail and allowed to hang loose about her shoulders, looking soft and shiny. The dress complemented her figure and it's colour made her eyes sparkle bluer, she had a natural unconscious beauty about her. 

The waiter who held out her seat for her obviously thought so too, as he solicitously asked her if she would like some wine -on the house, and gave her the menus insisting that she call should she need _anything_. 

Clarice took her time on her meal, savouring the rich foods and delicious ingredients, from the window of the restaurant she could see the Eiffel tower, only visible by it's lights now that night had fallen. She swirled the remaining wine around in her glass holding the stem delicately between her fingers, her desert plate was scraped modestly clean and her napkin had been folded neatly by it's side. 

Clarice was quite content to just sit there gazing thoughtfully out into the flickering city lights, without actually concentrating on anything but how she felt so free to be away from the FBI. Free to be her, it was an amazing feeling probably the result of several glasses of wine she concluded idly. Though she still felt in full possession of all her abilities, accept it was…as if…well she felt as though she could smile and not strain to do so. I need this, Clarice thought, it's like a holiday, it's -

"Well, hello Clarice" the rasping tones, the slow drawing out of her name,

Clarice froze, and then very ladylike she placed her glass back down upon the table and said,

"Hello Doctor, would you like to join me?" quite calmly even as her heart beat faster and she thought over and over _my gun is in my room, my gun is in my room…_

"Thank you. I think I will" and before her eyes was Doctor Lecter, sitting down in front of her, he signalled over the waiter who came immediately, obviously, thought Clarice the Dr. had been here previously -was he staying here?! "Two glasses of Chianti please" he spoke courteously and the waiter bowed before turning away to do so.

"Here on FBI business no doubt Clarice" it was slightly phrased as a question.

"Yes Doctor, yours also I believe" she tried to keep her voice steady.

"Hmm, I'm sorry for shocking you my dear" he sound genuinely concerned and Clarice begins to think she's going to laugh -hysterically. A small smile curves her lips, she is sat in her hotel restaurant in Paris, with Doctor Lecter, whom is the reason she is here, making conversation. He's a cannibal dear, she tries to reason, why aren't you arresting him then? She tenses.

"Ah yes Clarice, I wouldn't try anything silly? Hmm? After all we wouldn't want anyone to get hurt" a slight inclination of his head and she sees his harpy, held low, and tapping against his thigh ominously, another tilt and she notices that a young girl sits at the nearby table with her mother. The intimation is quite clear, she nods her head in acquiescence, without her weapons, without even her handcuffs it would be foolish to try and arrest him, she will have to play his game. 

The waiter arrives back at their table, the Doctor's harpy disappears, smoothly slid back up his dinner jacket sleeve, he tips the waiter and then waits for him to leave before starting the conversation again.

"Well Clarice, how are you, it's been a while since our last chat"

"I am well, thank you Doctor Lecter" she resists the urge to enquire after him, she can't help her eyes stray to his right hand, of course the doctor notices. 

"Ah yes, just the smallest scar" he holds his right hand above the table and indicates with the other hand the pale white mark that is the only reminder of it's past detachment. It runs from just below his forefinger to the bottom of the thumb and wrist, involuntarily she reaches out her hand to touch it, her own thumb gently drawing the path, before she jerks back in horror. The hairs on the back of her neck have risen, and she shivers.

"Cold?" asks Doctor Lecter, his maroon eyes boring into hers, his hand once again withdrawn, sparks of electricity running up his arm as he savours her brief touch. Clarice swallows, the pleasant blur that is caused by three glasses of strong wine have placed her mind into some sort of shut down, she decides reassuring her FBI self that of course she isn't fraternising with the enemy. 

"A little Doctor" of course she's cold, why else would she shiver? Why else...?

"Have some wine" his tone does not brook argument, she complies, taking a sip of the dark red wine, it's strong, but she doesn't make a face. 

A flash and she is back at Chesapeake drinking the same wine in a desperate effort to blur out Krendler munching happily on his own frontal cortex, a lurch of sickness overcomes her at the sudden memory. She resorts to the same tactic and drinks some more wine, the glass is finished and yes everything is a pleasant blur now, the Eiffel Tower lights doubled and seemingly moving closer. A strong arm supports her as she almost falls and she hears

"No that's okay, I'm a friend, I'll take her up to her room"

Clarice leans heavily on the body that half carries her out the restaurant, it smells nice, a hard muscular body beneath expensive clothes. Outside the restaurant the air is slightly clearer and some of her senses are regained. _Holy shit- Doctor Lecter, have to…phone FBI…Who …this? Why am I so dizzy? Where …? The wine…you drank the wine…the wine was drugged! Fool! Stupid stupid girl! Must… fight… so tired though…I _then blackness overwhelms her and she falls, falls falls until she knows no more.

A/N : hell, I dunno, does it read ok? Tell me -I'm a little bit unsure about the whole 'how-Clarice-reacts-to-Doctor-Lecter-thing' lol. 


	6. Beware Nice Men

Okay, lets see, I had this terrible nightmare where you all came and tortured me in true Lecterphile fashion because I hadn't posted the new chapter. Just in case you are actually thinking along those lines may I just assure you that I will never ever be so lax again. *Runs screaming as a thrown harpy narrowly misses her head*:)

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Chapter… Whatever one it happens to be! 

The first thing she became aware of was the warmth of sunlight across her face, yellow light through her closed eyelids. Then, the vague feeling of irreparable loss as she realised that the warm comforting presence that had lain beside her the night before was no longer there. She lifted a heavy and sluggish to respond arm to the cool but slightly rumpled bedclothes where he must have lain. 

Gradually sense comes to her as she regains consciousness and with it realisation comes, slowly. Up to her room, and being lain gently on the bed, her shoes removed, a strong broad hand in the small of her back, lifting as her dress is slid off, and then the covers pulled over her, tucked in like a little girl. A little while later, not so long, and the bed moves slightly as he sits on it, she senses rather than sees his form move over to her and instinctively she curls up, resting her head upon a shirted chest, falling asleep to the deep thudding of his heart.

One question, Who? What 'he'?

Who indeed?

Protesting her eyelids peeled open, her tongue felt tripled in size and her head pounded when she moved, the room was blurry until her eyes focused. 

"Aww" she moaned as she sat up, it appeared the room she was in was her hotel room, presumably the same hotel room, straining she tried to remember anything of the night before. 

"My name is Clarice Starling, I am an FBI agent, I am in…Paris, searching for Dr Hannibal Lecter who is a cannibal and all out bad guy…well not all out bad guy, after all, he eats the rude, that's kinda a public service and what the heck am I _on?!_" Clarice laughs, it's absurd, why on earth can't she remember anything except Dr Lecter and her name and… 

"Oh holy _shit!_" Clarice' hands fist, grabbing hand full of the bed sheet and twisting it as memory (as it so unfortunately often does) returns. 

"Awww, _man_." Funnily enough, she isn't thinking what she would think she would be thinking in such a situation. In fact, she's thinking about how on earth she should explain this, or _if_ she should. A glance at her clock tells her that she has indeed overslept by quite some time, it is now 11am in the morning, no wonder it was so sunny. 

Clarice gets up slowly, her eyes squinted against the pain the light caused her head, half way to the bathroom, she sees it, a mauve envelope, her name inscribed in the centre thereof. And she knows.

"Hannibal…" she murmurs, not even wondering why she calls him by his first name, and reaches for the envelope, collapsing onto one of the high backed Victorian chairs that seem to flourish in 5 star hotels. Not that she's been in many of the said.

The letters seem to blur again, and then she reads;

__

Hello Clarice,

First, my apology for the night before, it was unplanned, but necessary. I did not anticipate your being in a 5 star hotel, knowing the FBI, I thought to find you in a simple hotel, or perhaps even a Bed and Breakfast. It was a shock to see you when I came down for dinner, so I did what I thought was best - I approached you and drugged your drink with a mild sedative. You were a threat to my freedom that I could not allow and so I dealt with the situation as best I knew, and I know you will be angry with me. 

You will not find me here at the hotel, understandably I have moved into other accommodation, neither will you find any traceable persona in the hotel database, not that this will of course stop you searching. Your duty to the FBI of course is always of paramount concern to you, another example of the reason I was so quick to act in my defence.

My dear, in case you are wondering, which I suspect that you are, I can assure you that nothing 'unsavoury' occurred last night, I behaved impeccably- if I do say so myself. Yes, I did join you to sleep for part of the night, or at first to watch you sleep, it was an added bonus that you chose to curl up against me, did listening to my heart remind you of your time in the womb? 

Ah, I am sure that you are horrified listening to this, or perhaps you are in denial, pity I cannot be there to watch the emotions, conflicting ones maybe, flicker across your face. 

Somehow, Clarice, I don't think you will show this letter to you 'friends' of the FBI or the Paris Police Force, in fact, I should think you will be ashamed of what happened-though since little did I see no reason for such behaviour, yet I know my Clarice. The lambs will scream louder for a while, won't they Clarice, because you slept peacefully when a cannibal was in your bed and I wonder, why?

My dear Clarice, so very unpredictable and unique, I look forward to our next meeting.

'Sweet Dreams' Clarice,

Hannibal Lecter M.D.

Her first thought was 'Sarcastic bastard, sweet dreams my arse', and then she thought back to the night before, had she really slept peacefully? Well, yes, no dreams, no nightmares, no waking up at some ungodly hour and watching Jerry Springer to try and bore her herself to sleep, or the 24 hour weather channel as it had been the night before, slightly less effective surprisingly. Clarice caught herself wandering and brought her mind back to the point, that being, _yes_ she had slept well with Hannibal Lecter beside her, with her. 

That having been established, Clarice went quickly to the bathroom where she threw up last night's dinner, lunch and breakfast feeling incredibly sick with disgust and horror.

__

A/N: That would seem to be a rather good place to leave it but I shan't, as I feel guilty for the lack of chapters these last weeks, plus it would be rather short…so, read on!

"Lets keep it quiet okay Pierre? I don't want the public to know this, no leaks understand? And no security following me around, I can take care of myself". Clarice had just left the Paris police hospital, having just been tested to see if their were any drugs remaining in her system, she had noted that they had not questioned her story- how very unlike her own FBI, and this was a foreign country! They had found a mild sedative in her blood (the Doctor had not lied- did he ever? Had she thought he would?) and that in itself confirmed her story, had they had any doubts. Unfortunately Pierre was being slightly over-protective.

"Mais Madame! Hannibal Lecter est…ah pardonne! I meant to say- he is dangerous, I would be..ah…my _duty _to protect you, to have no guard - c'est, urr ah, impossible!" 

"He did not harm me last night, and has not before, I'll be okay Pierre, it will only draw more attention to me, and then the reason I am here could come out, and then -panic, nobody want's a cannibal for their next door neighbour". Pierre took awhile to mentally translate what she had said.

"Oui, this is true. Guards must be though!"

"No, I have my weapons"

"This is not enough he is a mad man" Pierre was as firm as her, though respectful of her position as an FBI agent to whom all whims were allowed, unless totally OOO.

"If he was going to do anything it would not be to me" she looked ahead, at the front entrance, which was a revolving door, and beyond.

"How can you be sure?" Pierre sounded sceptical to say the least.

"He would have done it last night. Pierre, please?" Clarice tried pleading "Put a phone tap on me if you wish, and check up on me every so often, make sure you know where I am, but no casual policemen or bodyguards, I value my privacy".

There was a short silence then Pierre nodded curtly.

"Okay, be safe, and have a good sleep we shall see you tomorrow- rested and ready to search again- yes?"

"Yes-" Clarice was interrupted by a shout.

"Captaine!" an officer was calling after Pierre, somewhat distressed.

"Oui?" the officer caught up and stopped, standing to attention for a moment before collapsing into a torrent of french that Clarice had no hope of understanding she waited for Pierre to enlighten her.

"Merde! There has been a body found, some…parts are missing, they suspect Dr Lecter" Pierre turned to her, "Will you come to see the body? The translator will come too"

__

Shit. "Yes. I will." Unknowingly they had both used the same swear word, ironic considering the barriers of language, or perhaps understandable. "Do they know who it is?" she queried, a burst of staccato french followed.

"No" answered Pierre "There was no ID and his face has been…mutilated"

"Mutilated?" 

"Cut, sliced, perhaps bitten"

"I see" Clarice took moment to compose her self, she was still recovering from the night before, when she looked at Pierre again, she was all business, her face properly impassive and her mind firmly objective. If it was a suspected Hannibal Lecter victim, then the field was hers, she began to give orders, she was no longer the raw FBI recruit that had interviewed Dr Lecter in Baltimore and she had control of the game.

For now.

Didn't she?

A/N: I got the chance to see Hannibal again a few days back! Second time I've seen it- properly. I've never actually seen Silence of the Lambs, though I really want to. Trouble is, I don't actually own a TV, let alone a video player! **Please review**, if only to tell me off for taking so damn long with this!


	7. Gutted

Disclaimer: No characters from the realm of Thomas Harris belong to me. I'm just manipulating them in ways I'm sure would make him weep.

****

Chapter Seven. 

The crime scene was in a Paris park, they arrived at just past 4pm evening was beginning to creep in, the wind cooler and the shadows darker. Police officers lined the park fence and police warning tape had been unrolled all the way around, billowing and making a slight 'whirring' sound in the breeze. 

Tall trees, ashes and oaks, sycamores and a chestnut lined the curving gravel path that ran around the park's outer edges, as far as the eye could see. The grass was springy beneath their feet and kept short, the borders well maintained and the flower boxes weeded, there was no visible graffiti, and Clarice noted that the area seemed 'upper class' the nearby buildings obviously privately owned. Leaves skittered across the path she walked on, dancing in rising circles before collapsing lifelessly as the eddies of the air stilled, her feet disturbed them from their rest, and she felt vaguely guilty when she stood on them, as if she had taken a life. 

Pierre and her were led across the grounds to where a park bench was, surrounded by people in white overalls and where a white police tent was being erected, the trees overhead formed a dark green lattice work of leaves, putting the corner into a shifting shadow. Under the tent doorway and Clarice steps over a loose newspaper sheet that has been lifted by the wind, the men have secured the tent now -pulled it around the park bench and the body is visible. At least, part of it, there is a surplus of newspaper sheets, mostly covering the body, a police officer is carefully removing the ones left, they are stained dark, so that the ink has run and the papers glued together. 

The victims blood, Clarice realises, she moves closer, and manages to see the face -the first thing they uncovered, bite marks above the eyebrow? Too much blood to see clearly, both eyes are missing, leaving bloody gouged out sockets and the mouth gapes open, slack in death, or terror. The tongue is not visible, as she catalogues the injuries visible, Pierre moves up beside her and murmurs, as most do in the presence of the dead perhaps in an illogical fear of waking them perhaps just respect for the deceased.

"They think it is a homeless man, the newspapers you see?"

"No- his shoes" Clarice points down to the polished brown lace ups, Pierre looks surprised.

"He may have stolen shoes but I'll tell them to stop presuming" she nods to show she's heard, but her attention is drawn back to the body, as the police man in his distinctive whites, peals off the last soggy newspapers. A collective gasp, the policeman himself pales, Pierre mutters something in French that Clarice thinks is probably quite rude but she doesn't give a damn. 

The man has been gutted, expertly slashed straight down, and then up, a neat loop, his entrails have been neatly arranged in a pile beside his body, and the his hands are clenched into claws -frozen in death. Clarice is sure they will find his own blood and skin under his nails for sure he died trying to hold his intestines in, helpless to stop himself from bleeding to death. It looks like someone stopped to tidy him up- the neat pile and the newspapers, did the eyes come out before or after the gutting and death? Did his murderer watch whilst he died? Did he know the murderer? Is the murderer Dr Lecter…99.9% sure.

A camera is flashing, as the men come forward with a body bag, she watches as they expertly slide the body in and zip it up…up…just a bald head now with a few strands of hair, something is bothering her, but she can't think what. She looks, frowning at the ground, a gust of wind hurls a newspaper so that it curls around her leg, and she reaches down to free it and sees, in the gathering dusk of evening, the name of the paper. **_The Tattler_** and the headline, **FBI Agent Clarice Starling to Pursue Hannibal 'the Cannibal' in Paris.** What's wrong with this picture? Clarice stares at the mug shot of Hannibal Lecter, reads some of the article, and it clicks, it's in English, this guy was not French, inspiration hits and she walks towards the pile of loose papers that were pulled off the body, some wet with his blood. Bending down she uses a plastic bag to rifle through the papers, towards the end they get stickier and she is aware that Pierre is behind her, obviously curious as to what she is doing, but trusting her judgement. When she reaches the end she has a nasty suspicion who the victim is, no _was_, she stands stiffly, it took awhile to go through all the papers, she gestures to the translator, a middle aged man. 

"Every single paper was from the **_Tattler_** an American newspaper, they were all in English, and the paper is a few days old, the title of the piece is on Hannibal Lecter and my journey to Paris to pursue him. I think this was done deliberately by Dr. Lecter". The translator listens intently then turns to Pierre and explains in fast French, all the other officers are listening, she can't tell how much they hear, but know they caught 'Hannibal Lecter' the translator turns back, he has a thick French accent as he talks and gives her Pierre's reply.

"The … officer asks is you think this is some kind of message, or challenge? Is he trying to communicate with you?"

"I'm not sure" Clarice purses her lips thoughtfully and looks at a graver Pierre, "I think I know who the victim was, and I think he was American"

"Who?" ask Pierre himself, who understands most of what she says.

"A man who sat next to me on the plane here-"

"I am sorry"

"No need, he was extremely annoying, he was reading that newspaper and…" they look at each other both thinking the same. Pierre voiced the thought,

"Dr Lecter perhaps did this, _for_ you. Has he not been known to do so before?"

"Yes" and I can't say I miss Paul Krendler that much either, but this is, not _again_. 'Beauty and the beast' syndrome. A silence then, Pierre turns and orders some police officers, and Clarice is suddenly very tired, the hospital nurse had told her to go home and sleep it off, or else she'll end up collapsing as her body tries to compensate for the drugs in her system. Pierre notices, a sign from him and a young police officer dressed in the navy blue comes forward.

"Phillipe shall take you back to your hotel Miss Starling. We shall sleep and meet tomorrow"

As she sinks gratefully into the comfy car seat Clarice feels the crinkle of a piece of lavender scented paper that lies in her jacket pocket, hidden from prying eyes, how she intends to keep it, Dr Lecter's letter.


	8. On Intimate Terms?

****

Chapter Eight.

__

Three days later…

Clarice was relaxing in her new hotel bar (yes she'd been moved 'for her safety') it was extremely late, so late that she'd had to help herself to a drink, it was 3am in the morning. You'd think they'd have someone around, but no, anyway she had been unable to sleep and had begun to feel claustrophobic in her room.

Her legs swung from the tall leather seated bar stall she was sat on, her elbows propped up on the dark polished bar and idly swirling wine around an elegant wineglass the fluted stem long and thin in her hands. The wine was from her private bar in her room, but she had brought it down here with her on her midnight excursion searching for a suitable glass to put it in. Deeming the bathroom toothbrush mug as offensive to drink the exquisite velvety wine from, obviously the expensive lifestyle was rubbing off on her, though she was being careful with her cash, well, the FBI's cash. A small smile curved her lips, until thoughts turn to her business here in Paris and the smile falls down into a frown. 

The victim's name was Neil Ingott he was an American car dealer, working for a much larger company as an international financial negotiator. Enquiries at the company had shown that he was fairly useless, despite a brilliant start as a young man he had 'failed to keep up with the times' and apparently had been due to be bumped off (as in fired not killed). He had an ex-wife from an early marriage but no children, he had no partner, but some male friends, and Clarice remembered the intense relief she had felt on hearing all of this. No need to feel guilty (because she did) as she hadn't orphaned any child, any 'lambs'.

Neil Ingott _had_ been the man who had rudely accosted her on the plane, and a hair found on his body contained the DNA of Dr Hannibal Lecter, confirming his killer, so had Dr Lecter killed for her? He really disliked the rude, and had been known to kill for her, (note Paul Krendler) though he may have just found the man offensive to his own sense of manners and politeness (or lack of in the deceased). Even more interesting- all of this meant that Dr Lecter had known the events that had occurred on the plane, since she had not spoken of it to anybody else he must have been on the same plane. That same plane! A few seats forward, or back, across the isle? 

Clarice had spent half a day on the phone to Pearsall explaining that somehow Dr. Lecter had boarded an _American_ plane to Paris and nobody had spotted him, had stopped him, had questioned his identity, all of which raised a hell of a lot of questions back home. Never mind that the Paris Police officials and Government were questioning how he had gotten into their country. 

Luckily the **_Tattler_**'s story on Clarice running off to Paris to find Hannibal had not been taken seriously, at least not by the major press, Pierre was being fabulous. He had managed to keep everyone quiet on Neil's murder and everything was Top Secret, _hush hush_ so to speak, wouldn't last long of course but for the moment the Paris people were no wiser. 

Clarice heaved a sigh, and took a sip from her glass of wine; she was wearing her latest indulgence, a silk nightie, creamy coloured to complement her complexion with thin spaghetti straps and loose curves. It had been expensive but worth it, it was soft and felt glorious next to the skin, she felt incredibly sexy wearing it too, feminine almost- which she didn't get a chance to feel very often, guns and all. 

Looking down at herself she laughed, she had pulled on a pair of jeans to come downstairs, definitely not sexy, her nightie looked like it was a badly fitted shirt, billowing out slightly where she hadn't tucked it in. Then again, when was she likely to be with a man again, the last time she had been seen naked by a man was so long ago she couldn't even remember, and the sad thing was that she hadn't even missed it. I'm a sad old crone/spinster at the age of 32, and then of course, the last man to see me naked, (I'm presuming, since I was out like a light) was Hannibal Lecter. Oh…well, Grrreeat! That says pretty much _everything_ about my love life! 

Clarice bowed her head into her hands, her wineglass abandoned empty on the bar top, overwhelmed by her misery and loneliness. "Get some bottle Clarice", she whispered to herself, but there are times in your life, when no one is around, when you admit the things that really bother you, deep down.

Some time passed with Clarice buried in the worst feelings of human emotion, until she heard music- a piano. At first she thought someone was passing in a car, but no it was constant and inside the building, in fact, she got up, it came from the drawing room, where she knew stood a massive grand piano. Cautiously she made her way there, stopping just before she reached to savour the music it was beautifully played, what was it again? She had heard it before, but where was it from? It touched her, full of a sadness and hope and light and dark, she could listen forever if her curiosity wasn't driving her wild, who on earth would be playing at this hour? 

As her hand touched the drawing rooms door and carefully turned the handle, the music ceased, suddenly stopping in the middle of an extremely 'legato played' arpeggio. She entered to find the piano seat empty but the last notes still lingering in the air, the strings of the open piano vibrating softly, but when she looked around she could see no one, was she going mad? 

Concern etched into her features until she reached the piano stool and sat down, could she possibly try and play that very same music? Concentrating she reached out a cautious right index finger to play an ivory key, it rang out clear but no, it was the wrong note, she experimented, moving down the range of notes till she found the one she thought was correct. Only, when she tried to find the next possible note they didn't sound very good together, she realised that it probably wasn't possible for her to play it, and she was disappointed. Her hands lightly resting on the smooth surface of the keys in (if she had known) a near perfect positioning she tried again, but knowing really that she couldn't, she hadn't learnt piano, recorder maybe, but not piano. 

It was a shock when other, male hands suddenly covered her hands, she hadn't heard anyone enter the room, but then again nobody had left either, so presumably it was the mystery piano player. His hands were warm and soft, not so smooth as her own but still soft and supple, they skilfully manipulated hers into a position on the keyboard. The arms encircled her, the body just a decent distance away from her own, but the heat from it warming her, and his breath warm on her part-exposed back. Then their hands moved, it was slower as her fingers didn't know how to move to the music and having four hands complicated things a little. The music began to flow again, occasionally jerky when an octave was jumped or fingering altered, but it was repetitive and she learnt quickly under the man's careful silent tutelage. 

Clarice relaxed the music and company working magic on her that she really needed, the tight knot of tension in her shoulders loosened and she leant back onto the muscular hard back of the man behind her. He didn't complain, but stepped forward slightly to support her, and continued his gentle caressing of her fingers as he played.

Her eyes slid closed, the man smelt of expensive cologne and his clothes were soft against her back, briefly she wondered who it was, but the thought was tossed away, perhaps lack of sleep and a glass of wine, relaxing music dulling her usually sharp mind. The man stopped playing, her hands had slid away from the keyboard to rest languidly in her lap, and she opened her eyes again, looking dreamily ahead at the music stand. She hadn't noticed the small white scar on the man's right hand… 

"You play beautifully" Clarice told the man whose hands now rested on her shoulders, and were gently soothing in expert patterns. Waves of well being floated through Clarice, she welcomed them; only now did she realise how uptight she had been this last week. 

There was no reply to her comment, no verbal reply; instead a light kiss was dropped upon her bare shoulder and she shivered uncontrollably with the sensation of lips rougher than the skin of her body briefly smoothed against her shoulder. 

A pause, and then the head lowers and kisses her breastbone (a/n clavicle bone), staying for longer in contact, but she turns and looks to her side and sees the top of his head and something screams very loudly inside of her. Almost imperceptibly she stiffens but he senses it and raises his head, she is shaking so hard now she worries she will upturn the piano seat. He turns away his head, not allowing her to see his features the sudden movement of his body away from hers like a shock of ice-cold water on a hot summer afternoon. For a second she regrets it, he reaches the door, she watches him open it, and then he speaks for the first time tonight.

"It was 'Memory' Clarice" then he bows his head, as if in sorrow and leaves her, alone again, more cold and fearful than before because now she has a new enemy- herself.

She doesn't move to stop him leave, to follow him. Clarice Starling, FBI Special Agent lets Hannibal Lecter, renowned sociopath, and infamous cannibal, walk free. 

Why? 

Because for just that moment they were equals. 

Authors Notes: I hope you loved this chapter, I had such fun writing it- more Hannibal and Clarice, - simply delicious, don't forget to tell me if you enjoyed it too! Ooh, and thank you ever so much for the **kind **and **wonderful reviews **you all left for my last chapter. :)


	9. 'Getting To Know You'

****

Chapter Nine. By _Golly!_

"..mais le leads have gone nowhere, _nowhere_! The air lady, elle est useless! Nous avons un… dead end Miss Starling…Miss Starling? Miss Starling! …_Clarice_?"

"Yes Pierre?" 

"You are back?" 

"I'm sorry?" Clarice sounds nonplussed, she frowns puzzled, at Pierre who is regarding her curiously his tanned clean-shaven face tilted slightly at her.

"For a moment there I did not have you Miss Starling, is something wrong?"

"Oh. I'm sorry, no nothing is … wrong"

"Non? Are you sure"

"Oui Pierre, merci pour ta questionne" her French is rusty to say the least but he understands the sentiment, and smiles back at her fondly, they are getting on well. The case however, is not. Dr Lecter remains unfound and that is with tight controls on all French borders, hotels, restaurants etc, you name it the PPF have a tab on everything. Currently they are having a lunch break, having just finished sandwiches and with plastic mugs of coffee, sitting in a green leaf park with a massive pond, which over part of droops a mournful weeping willow. 

"Je trouve…ah, pardonne, I find myself wondering if he has not already left Paris" ponders Pierre aloud.

"We missed him you think?"

"Yes, but we shall not stop looking, it could be what he waits for, a stop of search, yes?"

"Yes, possibly"

"zossivly? This is?" 

Clarice laughs, "It means 'maybe'"

"Ah" Pierre grins at her. "Good thing that no more deaths hmm?" but Clarice has gone again, her expression showing that her thoughts are miles away and Pierre is worried about her. "Madame Starling?" no response, he sighs, something does trouble the American FBI agent, but whether she has knowledge of that…? 

He takes the moment to study her profile in detail. The lady is pretty, no doubt, but with a will of iron and a fierce spirit, he admires her a great deal, he hopes they can become friends outside of work. Ah mais non, not like that, if he was not married then perhaps he would have but no, strictly platonic. It would work better that way anyhow, he will miss her when she leaves, yes, as if reading his thoughts she speaks up again, slightly vague.

"Pierre, the FBI have told me to get results fast or find my self a new career"

"What! They cannot!"

"They can" replies Clarice grimly, surprised at Pierre's vehemence but oddly pleased.

"Well, if we get nothing…stay in Paris" he feels her startled gaze on him but doesn't turn to look. 

"Uh…" _ah _thinks Pierre _she thinks…_

"No Clarice, I'm happily married, with a son and a little one on the way." He doesn't need to explain anymore. When he tilts his head and smiles genuinely at her she returns it.

"Really? How long?"

"Soon, it's going to be a little girl" Pierre's voice suffused with the proud feeling of a soon to be father -again. "Would you like to see a picture of my son? His name is Jean" he pulls out his wallet and they both lean over it as he shows her a picture of a tousled haired brown boy sat on a swing in a back garden, he is grinning a gap toothed smile, and looks absolutely adorable, if a trouble maker.

"How old is he?" asks Clarice grinning at the picture.

"5 ans" says Pierre, looking fondly at his son "This is my wife, Hanna" Hanna turns out to be a pretty petite lady with dark hair and tanned skin, standing with her hands on her son's shoulders, both beaming at the camera. Clarice suddenly feels jealous, though she doesn't know why, after all, a family is not something she has ever wanted, is it? Feeling compelled to say something she murmurs

"You must be very proud of them"

"Je suis" he murmurs in reply as he folds his wallet back up.

A little way away, Dr Lecter gazes over the top of his newspaper at the couple, _couple_ his lips curl in distaste, he watches as they stand and the Paris police man offers his arm to Clarice…_his_ Clarice. They laugh, _she_ laughs, now that is rare, and she takes his arm as they walk out of the park but she walks stiffly, Dr Lecter smiles again. All is well, not that he would mind if it was not, but if he is her …protector, he has his duties. He misses the sound of her voice already, her near presence, so close and yet untouchable, is driving him to carelessness. Being here in this same park is stupid of him. _Clarice_ he thinks _Have you given up your precious ties to the FBI yet? My Dear, I think we need to discuss your future, perhaps some …therapy. I can arrange that…_

A/N: Okay I know it's short but forgive me- major plot problems, but this chapter was essential for the plot I'm just having problems with my not-yet-ending, like _how_ should I end it!?!


	10. "All Alone ..."

****

Disclaimer: Copyright of these characters belongs to Harris and ah, whoever bought the rights to the film! No need to sue me, I'm not intending to make any sort of profit from it!

****

Ten.

Clarice was tired, bone tired, today they had stepped up the search and she had spent it (with the Interpreter- who walked awfully slow) arranging to have cameras placed in places like art galleries, museums, posh restaurants, the public library (the better one) and ugh so many places they all looked the same now to her. With all these cameras extra added and the PPF watching all those already up, Hannibal Lecter couldn't hide, unless he became a hermit and lived alone in, well, where ever he was staying. 

Clarice had mixed feelings about this, she _knew_ Dr Lecter was in Paris because of… the other night.. she shied away from thinking about that night in detail, but what was to happen once they found the Doctor? What if it came to a stand-off, could she give the order to shoot? It troubled Clarice that she was thinking about defending a murderer, a sociopath, someone who had harmed countless peoples lives, but she had told him, promised him almost that she would never take his life from him… just his freedom. What if she had too… _could_ she? _Why _couldn't she, wait, had she just said she couldn't? 

Confused Clarice growled under her breath and then was jerked out of her melancholy thoughts by music. Piano music, _that_ song, from _that _night, she hurried up the steps of her current hotel (yes, she'd been moved again, just to keep 'one step ahead') and into the foyer where a grand piano stood. It was glorious in its polished shine, positioned in the corner on a white marble floor where the music could drift over to the check-in desks. She walked fast over there. A man was playing, broad across the shoulders, thin hair on top, something built up in her a crescendo of the music of her soul, and she reached out a hand -

"Doctor Le-"

The man had turned around, it wasn't the doctor, it was a narrow face and pleasantly obscure at the moment, she stared for a moment the bile of disappointed filling her mouth with a sour taste. 

"Pardonne Mademoiselle? Puis-je aider-?"

"Non, Monsieur excusez moi…" Clarice didn't bother to analyse why she felt so disappointed obviously it was because the FBI agent in her was… The music, but the words were in French, she became aware that the old man was staring at her and that she was still at his shoulder "Monsieur, parlez vous en Anglais?" 

"…Un peu" he replied frowning at her in confusion.

"Bon. Je voudrais the…urgh the music, dans English, Anglais, do you have it?" she pointed for emphasis and spoke in a queer mixture of French and English, not sure how to compose sentences, not knowing the verbs. It took a few tries but eventually he showed her the way to a music shop where he said they would have the music in her language, or at least that's what she thought he said. 

It seemed he had been correct though for when she got there she managed to acquire the sheet music in English, and the tape (sung in English again) with minor difficulties, her FBI badge helping somewhat (totally just _happened_ to still be hanging around her neck of course). On her way home she tried to remember how the song had gone and sing the words along to it, she was having difficulty with the tune though, and she couldn't read music so that didn't help. Halfway back to her hotel she stopped on the pavement (a/n sidewalk?) and noticed at last the lyrics of the song that she had picked up from the music shop. Quietly she 'sung' them out loud,

"Midnight, Not a sound from the pavement, Has the moon lost her memory, she is smiling alone…" her voice faded as she spoke the words gently to herself in the darkening streets of Paris. "Memory, All alone in the moonlight…" as in the song, fallen leaves rustle around her feet, dancing in tune to the soft harmonic rising of her voice. "I remember, the time I knew what happiness was…" tears glisten in Clarice's eyes understanding the meaning of the song Dr Lecter was playing for her. 

A sudden blow to her back knocks her to the ground her music dropped and gasping for breath, she rolls over, grabbing her handbag and reaching in for her gun. Another fierce kick to her stomach winding her again but trained FBI reactions take over and she curls away and stands up, carefully moderating her breathing to gain back her breath and fight. She is still bent, winding pushes the air out of the lungs, if severe it can cause respiratory arrest, Clarice fights to remain calm, even as her assailant grabs her hair throws her using it down to the hard cement. He is strong but she is stronger… _just you wait you bastard…_she knows she can get him, but she didn't hear him come up, she curses her stupidity for standing alone in a darkening street _singing_ to herself! 

She hears his fist _thud _as it hits …what? Not her, another thump, a muffled 

"Oommph" another thump, think sackmeal, and then an ominous crack and silence. Her vision is blacking slightly she never _did_ have any patience for ailments of any kind, especially stupidity _which I seem to have in droves _she thinks bitterly. The strange whistling in her ears means that the voice is slightly muffled but it's quite obviously not the assailant.

"This is just a paper bag, I want you to breathe into it nice and slowly, try and fill the bag up" the brown bag is brought to her mouth and she follows instructions, a reassuring arm is set about her waist, holding her up.

"I'm… not… hyperventilating… winded" she protests wheezily.

"I know that, but you are in part, it will help. Trust me" the voice soothes and Clarice nods weakly and rests her head upon the man's chest, both of his arms coming up and around, cocooning her in a sphere of warm safety. It doesn't take long for her breathing to ease and the tightness to lessen, the pain ebbing away, her vision comes back and she realises it's dusk she sees her assailants body lying a little way a way lying knocked out on the ground. 

"Thank you so much sir" she speaks gratefully, and suddenly realising than she is still enclosed in his arms flushes pink.

"My pleasure" he replies and gently lets her go, his arms swinging to his side but one hand steadying her, holding her elbow. When she moves her body away from his she realises how cold it has become and shivers, the gentleman who 'rescued' her (Clarice curls her lip in disgust- how very 'Maid Marian') is silent and still behind her. 

Struck by a sudden rather viscous desire to have some sort of revenge for making her appear weak and foolish (which Clarice M Starling has always _never_ been) she walks over to the immobile form of her attacker and gives him a good solid kick in the balls. Her 'saviour' chuckles at her behaviour but it does make her feel better, a little immature perhaps but heck-who cares, it worked, she grins slightly evilly before it turns sour. 

"You speak English! How…" suspiciously she turns to face him and is presented with a sheet of music instead "Oh good, it's still readable".

"You are learning to play?" 

Clarice, distractedly wiping a smudge of dirt of the music replies vaguely "No, I wish I could but… I should phone the Paris Police Force where's my bag…?"  
"Right here and I should go" he holds out her handbag and she looks up as she reaches for it and answers him.

"Oh wait you'll have to tell…" Clarice trails off, her face pales, she freezes in place, her hand out-stretched towards her handbag in which her gun still resides. 

"Your observational powers are disastrously inefficient Clarice, perhaps however the situation clouded your mind?"

Clarice gurgles, a noise deep inside her throat, she is contemplating diving for her handbag or wrestling him to the ground, neither appeals particularly.

"Ah I see. Well Clarice since it appears I just did you an enormous favour and saved you from being ah 'beaten up', perhaps, just perhaps we could avoid the usual bother of handcuffs and throwing each other around?" he raises an eyebrow in question.

"Dr Lecter you are under arrest for.." Clarice starts off on his 'rights'.

"Ah perhaps then, not. Lets do it the hard way shall we then Clarice?" and the Doctor thumps her a gooden around the head, moving so fast that she couldn't see it in the dim light. Clarice goes down like a light. The Doctor sighs, "I'm afraid you'll have a headache in the morning Clarice", he bends and arranges her more comfortably, replacing her gun in her bag. 

Around the corner he makes a quick phonecall alerting the PPF to the attack when he hears them arrive he leaves, secure that she will be safe with them, safer anyhow.

A/N: Well? Like it? LOL I do love doing the GD and Clarice scenes they have such _scope_! For any that were wondering about this fic, I am planning to continue it _and_ the other, as long as you can keep them both separate in your head? :)


	11. New Life

I know, long time no see. You've all probably forgotten the plot of this, so go back and read it! Hope you enjoy the new instalment, the ideas are flowing, expect another up very soon!

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Chapter Eleven

Clarice woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a parched mouth, and the realisation that she was not alone, she struggled to unstick her eyelids and when she did saw Pierre sitting by her bedside looking worried.

"Guurggh" she managed, trying awkwardly to sit up, blinking in the light from the small window which was obviously not her hotel room.

"Clarice!" exclaimed Pierre, looking very relieved "tu revielle!"

"Pierre…water? L'eau?" she gives a dry cough as she successfully leans on one doubtfully stable elbow.

"Yes, of course" he gets up and leaves the room, as Clarice realises that she is wearing one of those hideous hospital gowns with the ties at the back, hiding absolutely nothing. It's Saturday, and with a start Clarice realises that Pierre is not actually on duty today, he has taken the day off to be with his wife who is due to give birth very soon, so why is he here? The sterile white door swings open and Pierre comes back in holding a weak looking plastic cup of water, she accepts it gratefully and drinks it quickly down.

"Pierre, there's nothing wrong with the case is there? They haven't closed it? Am I to be sent back? Is there-"

"Non non!" Pierre smiled tiredly at her "nothing wrong accepting that you were..mugged last night"

"Then why are you here? Isn't it your day off?" 

"My wife…" Pierre trailed off looking distracted and worried, Clarice wondered if something had gone wrong. "She is here, I have … told to go, I come here. I'm worried, difficult…labour" he struggled with the English in his distress.

"Oh no. Pierre, I'm sure it will be okay. Sometimes labour is difficult and long, you were probably getting in the way, that's all. I'm sure it'll be fine" as hollow as her words sound to her they seem to bring him some comfort, and she feels desperately sorry for her friend. 

"My son, would you like to meet him?" 

"He's here?" surprised Clarice wonders who he is with, if not his father.

"With my sister-in-law, mais she wishes to help my wife and cannot with son Jean"

"Uh, sure" it feels like it's totally inappropriate but seeing how keen he is to introduce him to her she's persuaded, she smiles "that would be great but do you mind if I get dressed first?" 

"Doctor should check you"

"I don't need a doctor to know I'm fine" 

Pierre laughs "No. While I get him?"

"Yes fine, where _are_ my clothes?" 

It only takes Clarice a moment to dress and wash her face with cool refreshing water she remakes her bed and stands by the window, remembering her miserable failure the night before and awaiting Jean's arrival with unanticipated pleasure.

Her rooms door squeaks slightly as it opens and then a child's voice proclaims 

"Salut!" happily with the blithe innocence only the young sustain. 

"Salut" grins Clarice, turning around to stare with interest at the small boy with a cheekily upturned nose, the same gap toothed smile from the photo and a ruffled mop of deep brown hair. Pierre stands behind his jeans clad son with the proud look of a pleased father, his son returns Clarice's piercing gaze with curiosity and then claps his hands, apparently satisfied with what he saw.

"Badge?" he asks in a thick French accent, she discerns what he means though, and removes her heavily engraved FBI badge from her wallet to give to him. 

His face lights up "Wow!" he exclaims and shows his father it reverently, Clarice is charmed by his fascination with it, and thinks of all the films that glorify the FBI agent's job to a small child with a big imagination. 

The next half an hour sees her doing a lot of miming and acting out of firing scenes or fights she's known, not at all sure his father will approve. Pierre is called away quite soon, to his wife, and entrusts her with his son whose wide eyes drink in every detail of her exciting life as an agent.

When Pierre finally comes back, Jean has gravitated to her lap and in a queer mixture of gestures and French is telling her what he is going to do when he is older. It appears to involve an awful lot of killing the baddies, climbing huge cliffs performing stunts, being a hero, having a whizz whizz car and going to bed when ever he wants. 

Pierre has the suppressed look of a man who wants to run whooping through the hospital halls, he tries a strange restrained smile at Clarice and says:

"A little girl! Come see, please?" before turning to his son and informing him gravely that "tu as une petite soeur" as Clarice tries to object.

"This is a private moment, Pierre, I don't want to intrude" 

"You won't, Hanna is tired but would like you to see the baby, she knows of you, I talk to her about my work, you looked after Jean" and then he smiles, Jean grabs her hand and she finds herself agreeing.

On the way down the rubber halls to the maternity ward she is appalled and embarrassed, she should slip off really, but Jean's tiny hand in hers evokes maternal feelings that dispose her to be more bending than usual. Upon entering the private room it's too late and she is confronted by a tired pale looking woman who holds in her arms what looks like a bundle of blankets. Jean lets go of her hand and runs towards his 

"Mama" who tenderly shows him the wrinkly face of the new-born. Jean is fascinated but informs Clarice that she's really ugly as he leads her up and introduces her (in French) to his mere.

"Hello, would you like to see the baby?"

"I… yes." and Clarice looks at the tiny face, the minute but perfectly formed fingers the wide blue eyes and the creased pink skin, and a pain slices through her, quickly gone but acknowledged. Ever-so gently she reaches out to touch the baby's puckered face, and finds her finger gripped by a fisted hand and she wonders at the startling strength displayed by such a weak looking human miniature.

"She's lovely" Clarice murmurs, sincerely and both parents beam at her, "I really had better go though. Thank you so much for letting me meet her" and gracefully Clarice makes her escape to outside the hospital confines, to rest her head upon the red brick wall and wonder what sadistic god is so cruelly playing with her life.

A/N: This fic will be finished quite soon and I assure you that this chapter was necessary, I trust that you didn't find it too boring! Hope to have time to read all the new ones I've undoubtedly missed, do any of you remember me? ta ta.. whisper.


	12. Camera

Disclaimer: This is an entirely unprofitable venture, because I'm writing it on _FanFiction.Net_. I apologise for any unintended insults to France by my completely blasé attempts to recreate whatever it and it's main library and also it's police force (should it have ones such as I have mentioned here within this chapter) look/act like. I do not claim any rights whatsoever to the works of Thomas Harris. _Bleh!_

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Chapter Twelve

"Sir!"

Clarice looked up from her paper work piled desk to see the eager face of a young lieutenant, practically hopping with excitement. "Yes?"

"Hannibal Lecter Sir, at… " Here the officer floundered and pointed instead at one of the many screens that provided a direct link to cameras all over Paris. This particular one showed the central Paris Library that contained a comprehensive and extensive collection of books ranging from popular modern day novels to renowned past century classics or intensive historical volumes and obscure scientific tomes to religious epics and mills and boon!

Clarice quickly got to her feet and made her way to the computer, the Lieut. sat back down at the screen and isolated a camera for her, gesticulating wildly at the figure seen to be browsing the dusty rows of books in the ancient Egyptian history section, rarely visited. 

"Change the angle" she ordered, the officer looked at her, plainly not understanding, the interpreter had just gone to lunch, Clarice nudged the blue uniformed man out of the way and altered the camera angle herself. It was difficult, any commands were in French and the help bar, menu…but she managed it, slowly the camera moved, the picture jumping, fuzzing, re-scanning, and resetting, for each small seemingly infinitesimal move it made she bit down her impatience and waited.

And then there was silence; somehow she had gathered an audience, a small army of French policemen and women, gazing in terrified, stricken awe at one small computer screen, isolated to show the face of one man. One man the whole world feared and hated. Hannibal Lecter.

"Let's go" ordered Clarice, and then louder as everyone remained still "Move! Move! We need to get there now! You know your jobs; you know what you have to do, do it! Someone get Pierre, and the bloody interpreter!"

Clarice's French had deserted her, she couldn't think of a single coherent line, but luckily her voice and actions spoke louder than words ever would. 

They had arranged the procedure right at the beginning, for instance; right now an officer would be alerting all units, to go into action, they in turn would be heading down with much squealing of rubber to the central Paris Library. They would quickly surround the building and secure all possible exits (now being brought up on someone's computer). A controlled evacuation would then begin, quiet and careful, until the doctor realised what was going on and then all hell would break loose, the distant whirring chopchopchop noise of helicopters broke in on Clarices thoughts. Her thoughts returned to the action at hand, she armed herself with her gun, a .45 and checked her ammo, full, with two spare clips, she took a last look at the camera and the Doctor's face. He was carefully opening a large book with an ornate cover, he seemed completely absorbed and at ease, so she jumped when his head swivelled suddenly and gazed straight at her, no, the _camera_. The Doctor appeared to ponder something for a moment before reaching casually into his pocket and withdrawing what looked like a silk handkerchief, a narrowing of his piercing eyes a mysterious smile and a sudden flick of his wrist, the camera went dark. 

"What happened?" Asked Pierre, abruptly at her elbow 

"He covered the camera" Clarice frowned, worried "do you think he knows?"

"Then why would he cover the camera, no I think he is not aware we are on our way. Come." Pierre indicated the stairs and nodding she followed him down several flights at a jog, vaguely noticing that he had also armed himself but both of them were too distracted by the task ahead for small talk. They dived into a black van which contained a small group of elite Special Services men, dressed in black and carrying machine guns, nasty tear gas, smoke bombs and other such ominous devices, who nodded in deference to the FBI agent and the PPF Chief. As well as a computer whiz kid (as Clarice called him) who had a small laptop with him currently sporting a birds eye view of the library and the surrounding police cars and helicopters, obviously obtained through a satellite connection. A click and the monitor showed Dr Lecter replacing a volume onto the cobwebby shelf, looking perfectly at home in the library environment, Clarice, apprehensive about the upcoming ordeal, found herself wondering whether Dr Lecter had ever read any _Mills & Boon _and had to stifle a giggle. 

Pierre looked at her curiously as he noticed her strange expression but didn't comment on it, instead he said:

"Good thing we installed the new cameras. Now we can see him still from other hidden camera" 

"Yes" Clarice wanted to ask him about his baby daughter, born a few days ago, but felt that the time and place were inappropriate to such a delicate personal query. Instead she tried to rest, to calm herself down, and rested her head back against the jarring metal of the van, closing her eyes and trying to think of something peaceful. 

"The evacuation has nearly finished, it appears the Doctor has noticed nothing. It is good that he is in such a unused part of the library" Pierre murmured in her ear, after a quick burst of conversation with the whiz kid. 

The van suddenly leaned sharply left and Clarice fought to stay in her seat, she was relieved when the vehicle came to an abrupt stop, Pierre and her were quick to jump out the back and see the situation.

There was a police tent hastily set up in the immediate vicinity and behind it, and them were groups of people milling about, with wide eyes and open mouths, police officers mingled with them, trying to clear the group, which presumably had just been moved from the library. Police cars formed an effective barricade around the Library, their vividly coloured markings and flashing orange and yellow lights making them very distinctive despite the already bright midday sun.

"We have already infiltrated the lower levels, Lecter is situated on the fourth, a team is ready to take the third and fourth and capture Lecter, once we give the word." Pierre looked at her questioningly, they had moved to the front of the large rather grandiose police tent and someone had given them walkie talkies, the heavy type you carry around like an old fashioned mobile phone, durable and hard to misplace, if not discreet. Starling was gazing up at the Library itself; it was a massive building, looming over the street below with a somewhat lofty air, massive marble pillars stood each side of a splendid but elaborate set of doors, whilst the floors rose up and up in tiers that glinted long thin windows with jutting stone gargoyles decorating various walls in fierce ugly scowls. It was certainly a masterpiece of architecture.

"Tell them to move onto the third floor and make it secure, I want a final sweep and as sure a head count as we can get to make sure no one is left in there with the Doctor. Accepting our men of course"

"Yes Agent Starling" it was the interpreter, returned from his lunch break and sporting a whole new gravy stain to his chequered tie, he hurried off, plainly nervous, to communicate her orders to the officers in the tent. A moment later he returned, wringing his hands and constantly glancing over his shoulder as if expecting the Doctor to appear suddenly there.

"The officers are reasonably sure that there is no one left in the building accepting the Target and your men. No one has complained of having left some one behind, the librarians believe that everyone they saw enter the library was seen to leave".

"Good" said Starling shortly, she looked at a tense but outwardly relaxed and confident Pierre "I'm going in" she stated.

"We need you here to oversee the process, I'll go." Pierre impassively studied the front of the gigantic building, not turning to even look at her.

"I know Lecter better" she objected.

"You know him personally. It's too dangerous. Can you guarantee your objectivity?"

"He's not my god damn _best-friend_ he's a sociopath, and by knowing him I can anticipate best what he'll do!" Starling quickly cooled down as she realised the trap she had just fallen into.

"Then," said Pierre predictably "we can quite obviously use you here at the control centre, it's where we need you"

Starling bit her cheek and tried to control her fury, her fingers whitened in their tight grip on the burbling walkie-talkie.

"If something goes wrong, which I hope it doesn't for your daughter's sake Pierre, I'm going straight in after you" Starling glared at him and then sighed resignedly. Pierre's lips twitched

"Good, but I'll take care. He won't get me, it'll be a smooth operation"

"Don't you dare say "Trust me"" 

"I won't"

A short silence, and then Pierre smiles directly at her, catching her eyes for a moment before striding off and calling out in commanding French.

__

You better come out alive Pierre, but if Lecter touches you I'll kill the bastard myself!

Authors Note: Oh dear, a happy ending? I was all for having a nice bittersweet _tragic_ ending, but I suppose I could _try_. What would be **your** perfect ending to this fic? I have plenty of ideas but which to use, that is the problem, and hints on preferences will be most welcome!


End file.
